Plop.

Why do my children never let me sit down? Ever? Is it something ingrained in their little minds, that Mommy is not allowed to actually SIT and eat dinner but only to perch on her chair, bringing a forkful of food to her mouth, only to immediately have to put it down again?

This is a typical dinner for me and the kids. Eric is working at dinnertime at least two weeks out of a month, usually three, sometimes four, so we've pretty much got the routine down pat.

I plop in my chair.

Tate: "Mommy, I need milk."

Plop again. Well, if I want to get technical, it's more of a "Plop, jiggle jiggle." But I'm going to omit the jiggle jiggle and pretend I have thighs of steel. Hey, it's my story.

Tate: "Mommy, I dropped my milk."

PLOP.

Nora: "AAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHH!" Roughly transated: "Where are the rest of my diced apple bits, you nutty woman?"

PLOP.

Tate: "Mommy, Spencer ate my noodle! Get it back! Get it out of his mouth!"

I'm thinking of doing a workout video along these lines. All that standing up and sitting down has to be doing something for my quads. But by the end of dinner, I'm about ready to plop through the floor and eat my dinner in peace in a hole under the house or something. By the time the kids are done eating, my dinner has usually congealed into something thoroughly unappetizing on my plate and I end up eating puffcorn and gumballs later and calling it dinner.

Tonight, though, I will plop and stay plopped. I'm going out for Mexican food and to see a movie with some girlfriends, and I'm greatly looking forward to eating an entire meal without getting gnawed-up Cheerios hurled at my head. Eric and I took the kids to Culver's for lunch today after swimming lessons, and while there were no great catastrophes, Tate did end up spilling his chocolate milk all over his butt so it looked like he was walking around with something gross and runny and brown on his rump. I don't know how he managed to get the milk on his butt instead of his lap, but that's my son for you. We decided to stop ruining other diners' appetites and wrapped him up in my jacket and left.

It's funny how meals out with the four of us start out just fine...Tate serenely coloring on his kids menu, Nora peacefully sucking on the edge of the table while Eric and I ignore it and convince ourselves that germs are good for children...and then by the end turn into something out of a horror movie. The kids are screaming and there are carcasses of grilled cheese sandwiches or slices of pizza on the floor where they've been launched to their death. Tate's under the table, Nora's trying to climb out of the highchair, Eric and I are hissing at each other to find Nora's freaking jacket and load up Tate's 20 books back into his diaper bag for GOD'S SAKE, and the waiter is no where to be found, probably because he thinks the four have us have become possessed with demons from the netherworld. I always expect everyone in the restaurant to stand up and applaud when we leave.

I would not blame them.